by Baxter Clare
"We know he's got a thing for schools, right? Am I safe in saying that? He's dumped two bodies at high schools, he's raped at and around two high schools. I think we should set up a decoy, maybe a homeless girl like the Jane Doe he did. Plant her around Nichols' walk to school."
"It's not in our jurisdiction."
"I know—we'd have to get cooperation from Culver City or cut them in on it."
Frank shook her head.
"No way. We're already brass heavy and soldier light," Frank said, in reference to the endless memos, meetings, and conferences that had been generated by involving Culver City in the investigation.
"Besides," she added, "it's just too big an area. We have no way of knowing if he'd see us."
"Well, what are our options right now, Frank? Sit around and wait for another Cassandra Nichols to turn up with a tree branch stuck up her ass?"
Noah tossed his boss a challenging look.
"If you're right, we've got a fistful of rapes, four dead girls, and not one solid lead to follow."
"I know what we have."
"Everything's petering out. The captains are all over us to close it so they can have their cops back, none of the cops want to be here, the chief's on Fubar's ass. I guess the only good thing is that it just isn't big enough for RHD yet. But at this rate that'll only be a matter of time. So what do we have to lose except the case and more girls?"
Continuing her perpetual street scan, Frank answered sarcastically, "Oh yeah. Fubar'll love it when I request additional manpower for a stake-out. And where exactly do we find a fifteen-year-old undercover cop?"
"I've been thinking about that. I got some ideas," Noah answered enthusiastically.
Frank was silently stroking her ring finger where she used to wear a thin gold band. She hadn't worn the ring for years but she still reached for it when she was mulling something over. Noah pressed his tiny advantage.
"I think I might have the perfect girl...woman," he corrected. "She's in Narcs at Parker Center. I met her a few weeks ago. I don't know how old she is, but I was really surprised when she told me she was a detective. She looks very young. Whaddaya say I talk to her, see if she'd work?"
Frank rubbed thoughtfully at the empty spot on her finger. It was a long shot, but at this point it might be their only one. She nodded, not breaking her stare out the window.
"You talk to your narc and I'll feel the Fubbie out. He won't want to share this anymore than I do, and I doubt CC will either."
"Atta girl, Frank, atta girl," Noah congratulated, punching his boss lightly on the shoulder.
"Are we any closer to finding out who he is?"
Foubarelle was hoping Frank wanted to see him because she had big news.
"Not really. Based on the way he's hit these girls and the way he's dumped them I feel pretty confident narrowing him down to a section of Culver City, but so far we haven't generated anything specific on this guy's ID."
"So technically this is Culver City's problem, but because Agoura and Peterson were dumped in our jurisdiction we're stuck with it."
Foubarelle grimaced, and Frank suspected he was weighing the merits of hanging on to this case or trying to dump it into the lap of the Culver City police. Foubarelle was a political weasel. If he thought this case was going to make his office look bad, he'd hand it over in a heartbeat. On the other hand, solving four homicides and nine rapes in one swoop would be an impressive coup. She figured this was a good time to hit him with their latest plan.
"Speaking of Culver City...we've been playing with the idea of setting up a decoy and doing surveillance for this guy. Take a look at this."
Noah had made a computer chart showing where their perp had committed his assaults, where he'd abducted girls from, and where he'd dumped them. Frank explained the plan, and the captain frowned.
"Now you're definitely out of your jurisdiction."
Frank nodded, deftly conceding a sense of control.
"If you wanted to run with this, we'd have to work with CCPD, get them on our side. It only benefits them in the long run—clears two homicides and a score of rapes for them, and they wouldn't even have to lift a finger. Good deal."
"But we still get credit for it," Foubarelle said absently.
"You still get credit for clearing two murders and a rape, not to mention bagging the Culver City Slayer."
The papers had taken to calling him that and it pissed everybody off. CCPD had to answer a lot of ugly questions and intensify their investigations, which basically meant assisting the LAPD carte blanche. This infuriated McNaughton, the CCPD chief. His mayor had ordered him to work with LAPD because the chief had hinted at nasty repercussions if CCPD didn't cooperate. To his own force, McNaughton had done more than hint. He didn't like that the media was having a field day at his expense and he'd made it very clear to his minions that the Culver City Slayer shit had to stop.
"What if it doesn't work?"
Frank shrugged.
"If the stake doesn't work, at least you can say you've taken a proactive stance and aren't just sitting around with your thumb up your ass."
"You know this is costing a fortune."
"I know, but does the chief want to wait until the guy comes knocking on our door, or does he want us to do everything we can before he kills another twelve-year old. God forbid a very well-connected twelve-year old."
Foubarelle reluctantly agreed to the stake. Frank dipped her head in assent, reminding him they'd have to borrow the decoy from another district. Foubarelle agreed to that, too, and Frank left the office having convinced her boss to enact a plan she barely believed in herself.
His father hadn't talked to him since he'd blown it during the championship game. His chances for a scholarship had slipped away with that intercepted pass and now the old man completely ignored him. The boy thought even the pain from the old days was better than this. He had to find a way to make things right again.
15
The guts of three case reports were spilled across Jill's desk. She and Bobby were looking at similarities between an old shooting of Gough's on 87th, the Mackay case, and a shooting Jill had picked up on 51st. Frank poured a cup of black coffee that smelled like burnt rubber and perched on Jill's desk, poking through the evidence with them.
All three looked up at the blonde girl Noah walked in with. Frank thought she must be a witness and glanced back down at the murder books, but Noah stepped up to her, waiting expectantly.
"What's up?" she asked.
"Detective Kennedy, meet Lieutenant Franco."
Frank was nonplused. Kennedy extended her hand, drawling, "How ya doin?" around a mouthful of gum.
Frank thought Noah was joking. The young woman before her looked more like a Malibu party girl: shaggy, sun-streaked blonde hair around vibrant brown eyes; tanned and toned arms dangling out of a sleeveless T-shirt with a purple sports bra underneath; baggy, purple harem pants ending in Teva-clad feet. Frank didn't see a detective anywhere in the get-up. Cracking and popping her gum, the woman smiled placidly between Noah and Frank, the latter staring quizzically at her detective.
"She's interested in being our decoy," he explained with his usual boyish enthusiasm.
Frank snorted a dismissive laughing sound, sure now that he was kidding. When he didn't laugh back she became apprehensive.
"I need to see you in my office."
He followed her in and she told him to close the door.
"What the hell's that all about?"
"What's what all about?"
"The girl. She barely looks old enough to cut her own food."
Noah laughed.
"Exactly. She'll be a perfect decoy."
Frank adamantly shook her head, "No way."
"Why not?"
"She's a baby, No. I'm not putting her out there. She'd blow it and get somebody hurt in the process."
"Frank, she's twenty-nine years old. She was a street cop in Corpus Christi for five years, got her shield and worked Narc before s
he moved out here. She's done undercover. You don't get where she's at by being a baby," he protested.
"Uh-uh." Frank was still shaking her head, and Noah flapped his hands in exasperation.
"Why not?"
"She's too young."
"That's the point, Frank! Who do you want out there, Grandma Moses?"
The higher Noah's voice rose, the lower Frank's got.
"I don't like it, No."
Frank was entrenching herself and Noah took a deep breath, settling on the edge of her desk.
"Alright," he spoke patiently. "Tell me exactly what you don't like."
Aware she was being mollified, Frank thought about pulling rank. But she trusted Noah and was aware of her tendency to be overly conservative. She answered instead, "She's just a kid. How do we know she didn't get promoted for political reasons—"
"Like you did?"
"Like I did. But I was a damn good cop. If she is qualified for this kind of work she sure doesn't look like it or act like it."
Noah grinned. "You're right. She looks like she should be hanging off a surfboard and getting faced on mai-tais every night. But hey, what sort of cop were you at twenty-nine?"
"Let's say I had a little more respect for the position. Look at her."
With a bluntness earned from years of friendship, Noah said, "Frank, everybody knows you were born with a baton coming outta your ass, but she's a narc, for Christ's sake! She can't run around in a suit and badge, so she's a little casual. Big deal."
"Is she on a stake now?"
When Noah shook his head, Frank shrugged, "That's my point. I can't look at her and say, Yeah, I want to trust a whole undercover op to this girl. She just doesn't strike me as very professional. This is a big op, No, and I'm not sending someone out there who doesn't totally have her shit together."
"Okay. I don't know her that well, granted, but her record speaks for itself, and just talking to her you can tell she's bright. I wouldn't say she doesn't have her shit together, and I don't see how you can just by saying hello to her."
"I've been a cop for a while. I think I know a little something about people."
"Well, I think you're wrong here. You're making a snap decision based on very little information. I don't think you're being fair and, frankly, I'm surprised. That's not like you." Noah paused, his sincerity evident. Then he asked, "Would you be so resistant if this was a man?"
Frank clamped her lips together. Her jaw muscles bounced. Noah was right—she wouldn't be nearly as resistant if Kennedy were a man. She knew that she resented it like hell when her colleagues had thought that way about her, and she had to admit the injustice of her attitude.
Nine times out of ten, a woman in a difficult law enforcement position was just as effective as a male. Both were trained to react in a specific manner, both knew what had to be done. Problems happened if a man started feeling responsible for his female partner, for fear of either his own safety or hers. This weakened his reactive instincts, interfered with hers, and put both partners in peril. Frank was irritated to find herself behaving exactly like that.
She propped her elbows under her chin and covered her face with her hands, lightly moving her forehead up and down against her fingertips. When she stopped, she looked at Noah and asked, "What's with the gum? That just really tops her whole image."
"She's a pistol," Noah agreed, leaning forward eagerly. "I like her, Frank. We talked on the way over. She seems really smart, steady, confident. I think she'd be great. We've got somebody out there banging away at these girls like they're bumper cars. If you're right, this guy has murdered four of these girls. I'd hate to see a fifth one go down because you were afraid to try an option."
"A pass play," she said.
"What?"
"Never mind."
Noah studied Frank, gauging her stance.
"Just talk to her. Give her a chance. If you can't get over it, we won't do it. You're the boss."
Frank lifted her eyebrows dubiously, and in the ensuing pause both cops tried to read each other. A good detective knew a lot of body language, and Frank figured she was probably speaking volumes. Her clasped hands were like a row of soldiers guarding her mouth, the thumbs and index fingers posed like sentries between chin and mouth. Frank finally pulled her face from behind its barricade, sighing, "Bring her in."
When Noah and the young detective returned, Frank asked her sharply, "Why do you want this assignment?"
Kennedy smiled and casually flicked her shoulders, loosely holding Frank's piercing gaze.
"It sounds fun."
Frank threw Noah a quick I-told-you-so glance.
"I assume Detective Jantzen told you what the job entails?"
"Yeah. He says you've got a real fuck-up on your hands."
Around a thick hick accent, Kennedy snapped her gum for emphasis. Frank stared coldly. She detested Southern accents and allowed herself her prejudice. In men they reminded her of ignorance and inbreeding; in women they suggested incompetence and illiteracy. In Kennedy they sounded like all those things. But there was an edge to the drawl that suggested it was more affect than actual. The young detective stood comfortably, her hands held loosely in her deep pockets. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears, revealing three diamond posts sunk in the cartilage of her right ear and two in the left. A small gold cross swung brightly from a hole in the left lobe. Her shoulders were bronzed and well-muscled.
"Where'd the tan come from?"
Kennedy grinned hugely.
"Surfing. I moved out here for the waves."
"Do you manage to squeeze in some time for work?"
"We've been workin' a lotta nights, which is kind of a drag, but it gives me time in the water, so that's awright."
Jesus Christ, Frank thought, Annie Oakley meets Brian Wilson. She asked smoothly, "Noah said you're in Narc. How many collars have you had?"
"Dang," Kennedy said, looking absently at the ceiling. "I'd have to check, but I reckon around one-twenty or so, mostly in Corpus Christi."
Frank was impressed, although she gave no indication of this.
"Have you ever worn a wire?"
"Yeah, it's pretty cool."
Frank just stared, but Kennedy remained unfazed by the cold scrutiny. Her playful insouciance was aggravating, and Frank said sarcastically, "You realize this isn't Beach Blanket Bingo, don't you?"
When Kennedy looked puzzled, Frank continued. "We've got a psycho on our hands. A big, dangerous man who likes killing girls after he's battered the shit out of them. Someone who wouldn't think twice about snapping you in half like a twig and then jamming a stick up your ass to watch you die. This isn't about fun and games. It's about little girls dying."
Frank had spoken with more heat than she intended. Without a trace of accent, Kennedy calmly parried, "I understand that, Lieutenant."
Frank knew she'd given away her hand. Locking eyes, she discerned a steel resolution beneath the easy facade. Frank looked away first, casually picking up a pencil.
"Who's your supervisor?"
"Lieutenant Luchowski."
"Have you talked to him about this?"
"No, ma'am."
Frank concealed her sharp irritation. She hated being called ma'am under normal conditions, and from Kennedy it was almost too much. She tersely asked Kennedy for his phone number.
Frank looked at Noah, who'd been watching silently, and said, "Alright." He grinned and gave Kennedy a low-five.
"I want to try and wrap up those interviews today, so don't disappear on me after you return Detective Kennedy to her—" Frank almost said tiki-hut, but realized that would not be politic— "office."
"You got it."
Frank watched the two detectives leave like they were going to play football together and she hadn't been invited into the game. She pulled the phone toward her and pounded Luchowski's number into it. He was pretty dedicated to playing by the rules, and Frank didn't think he'd be happy about loaning out one of his detectives. But that was
alright, because Frank suddenly found herself eager for a good fight.
"I worked my whole goddamned life for you people and what do I get back from you? Nothing! Nothing, goddamn you!"
His father had called in sick again and spent the day drinking. The boy could hear him in the living room, could hear his mother trying to murmur her way out of the deadly salvo. It wouldn't work, though. Why couldn't she see that? He was only a kid, and even he knew better than to talk back to the old man. She was just making things worse.
The boy sat huddled on his bed. Every muscle was rigid, every nerve stretched taut. He sat waiting. Waiting for the old man to yell his name.
16
"Beer-thirty?"
Johnnie leaned eagerly in Frank's doorway, like Greg Louganis entering a swan dive. She glanced at the clock. "Yeah, I'll be there."
Johnnie exited, clapping his hands. Frank knew his enthusiasm wasn't for her company but for the rounds she'd buy. Though she should be last in line to point the finger, Frank briefly worried about Johnnie's drinking. He drank a lot, every day, but if she excluded his frequent hangovers, or sullen distress when he had to work beyond quitting time, it didn't obviously affect his work. She realized that buying him beer only contributed to whatever problem he might have, but it wasn't her place, yet, to advise him on his drinking habits, nor did she want to disrupt tradition.
When Joe Girardi had been lieutenant of the ninety-three, he'd always popped for rounds on Friday afternoon at the Alibi. It was an informal way to end the work week, swap stories, blow off steam. More importantly for Frank, it was an opportunity to engage in the squad's good-old-boy camaraderie. Amid the continual whirl of razzes and quips that passed for conversation, through undeclared drinking contests and suddenly declared fistfights, Frank had held her own. She'd earned her spot on the nine-three as much at the Alibi as on the streets.
Concentrating on the paper under her nose, she heard Gough and Nookey talking. Most of the squad was still out, though, and Frank was determined to get more work cleared off her desk. Poking his head in, Nookey asked, "See you at the Alibi?"
